Page 11 of My Bratva Stalker

Just enough to feel the heat of his skin through the fabric.

I should pull away.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

He tugs.

Just enough to lift the material, exposing a sliver of my stomach.

My pulse skips.

My lips part.

His eyes—dark, unreadable, impossibly intense—stay locked on mine.

His fingertips glide lower, teasing the waistband of my leggings.

Not pushing.

Not demanding.

Just hovering.

Waiting.

For me to pull away.

For me to say no.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I just stand there, trembling, burning, losing my fucking mind.

His touch skims lower.

Over the dip of my waist.

Over the swell of my hip.

Over my thighs, the curve of my ass.

I gasp.

My body reacts before I can stop it, my breath shaky, my legs clenching together.

His eyes flash.

Something dark. Dangerous. Possessive.

Oh God.

What am I doing?

His hands finally settle on my hips.

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